The day comes to a close, the third anniversary of my mother's death. She died in CT. We all gathered here that evening and there was a thunder and lightning storm, and we sat in the dark and talked about my mother, "Grama Boop", and felt how much she was loved. We cried and laughed. We flew out the next day.
I look on-line for an appropriate poem. I realize the sadness is not sharp this evening. I feel her here in many forms. I have come to know more about death through her passing, and the passing of Mitchell. I become more and more comfortable with it, accepting, perhaps even welcoming, when my time comes.
All Return Again
It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not
die, but only retire a little from sight and afterwards return again.
Nothing is dead; men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals
and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out of the
window, sound and well, in some new strange disguise. Jesus is not
dead; he is very well alive; nor John, nor Paul, nor Mahomet, nor
Aristotle; at times we believe we have seen them all, and could
easily tell the names under which they go.
Ralph Waldo Emerson